“Technically, it was before the frustration. But, yes.” For the first time in hours, he felt like smiling. “You seemed to be in need.”
She was finally close enough to take the pouch, and when she sent him a quick glance of curiosity and thanks as she opened it, he felt it all the way down in his stomach. By Neptune, she had the loveliest eyes. And they got all the more beautiful when she unwrapped the set of paintbrushes and joy lit them. “Thad—how did you know I needed these exact ones?”
“They seemed the scraggliest of your set. Did I get the sizes and shapes right?”
“Exactly so.” For a moment he thought she might embrace him, the way she leaned onto her toes and strained forward, but proper breeding apparently won out—blast it to pieces—and she merely clutched the brushes to her chest. “You cannot know what this means to me today. Or perhaps you can, as you always seem to divine what people most need.”
A snort slipped out, and Thad paced to the open window. “If only everyone agreed. Sometimes trying to convince them feels akin to bashing one’s head against a rock.”
“He is always like this after a trip to Washington City,” Father said. Normal, everyday words. But Thad heard the note of warning hidden beneath the syllables. And certainly didn’t miss the sign he made. Careful.
Thad leaned into the windowsill and folded his arms. “A letter arrived yesterday from Belgium. The ambassador in Ghent reported that the British people have been crying against us, demanding retribution for our perceived audacity. Tallmadge said—”
“Ah, good ol’ Ben.” Father all but leaped to the edge of his seat, his hard-glinting eyes belying the bright smile on his face. He brushed his right hand twice over his left fist. Enough. “An old friend of ours, Gwyneth.”
Thad sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, half wishing he could obey the silent commands. “Madison called a cabinet meeting this morning. They all dismissed his concerns.”
“And already it is the subject of gossip?” Father chuckled.
A question that deserved ignoring. “We must take action. An attack is coming, and we are grossly unprepared.”
Father’s false mirth faded to sobriety, but still Thad could see the protective wall shuttering his eyes. “There is only so much we can do, son. You can talk with the leader of your regiment—”
“There is much we can do, Father, but it is going to require creativity and something I know will make you and Mother uncomfortable—the Culpers need to act.”
“Culpers?” Though she could have no familiarity with the name, Gwyneth had obviously noted the tension pulsing in the room and had backed herself into the edge of the table. “Who are they?”
Father stood, a tic in his jaw. “Thaddeus Lane, you are not—”
“—a child,” he finished for him. “Nor am I alone in my feelings. Tallmadge agrees. It is not enough anymore to ferry information from one location to another, not when those who should be acting on it continue to twirl their thumbs!”
The clatter of wood on wood interrupted, and one of the paintbrushes rolled to his boot. Gwyneth went deathly pale, her eyes round, her lips quivering.
And she was looking at him as though he were a masked highwayman waiting to relieve her of her jewels. “You…you are a…spy?”
Father muttered a choice word—in Latin, which was all Mother ever let slide—and tossed The Handmaid to the Arts onto his chair. “Thad!”
“Spy is hardly the best word.” He couldn’t quite restrain his smile. “I am no cloaked fiend out to steal secrets and pass them to the highest bidder, sweet. Merely someone in a position to help my country by keeping its leaders abreast of the goings-on.”
“Someone who will have a tanned hide once his mother gets ahold of him.”
His father’s mumble stole his attention for only a beat. Far more concerning was the way Gwyneth shook her head as if in a trance. “Why are you telling me this?”
Father folded his arms. “Yes, Thaddeus, why are you telling her this?”
He looked from sire to guest, the answer more a certainty in his gut than a fact he could put upon paper. And all the more trustworthy for that as facts were so easily twisted. “Because,” he said, silently bidding her to meet his gaze and waiting until she did, “she is already involved.”
Fifteen
Gwyneth wished, prayed she would wake up and prove this scene nothing more than another nightmare. But despite the table corner biting into her palm, the image wouldn’t waver. Instead, Thad’s words kept echoing through her head.